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The best time for writing

I’m writing this on Tuesday afternoon in the knowledge that I might have to write it again on Wednesday morning.

Mornings are my best time for writing, when my brain is at its most creative. Why that should be, I don’t know, but I know that it’s true.

Yesterday morning I wrote a new poem for the poem sequence that I’ve been working on for the last few weeks. It was good. In the afternoon I wrote another one. It was rubbish.

Writing in the morning has to begin before my brain has had to deal with anything more demanding than getting dressed and having breakfast. Everything else must wait until imagination has done its work. If anything gets in the way, the writing must be put off till tomorrow.

Whoever wrote the book of Genesis must have been familiar with the process of creation from his or her own experience of writing.

And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.

Writers go about their works of imagination in much the same way, making things, placing them, naming them.

And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.

I can just imagine him making a print-out, as I do, leaning back and reading it, and saying with a smile, “Hmm… That’s good!”

And the evening and the morning were the third day.

Like me, he got his ideas the night before, so they could take shape in the morning. Voilà!

Previous Posts

Winter Songs 6

Winter left a note behind A note without words Just an empty page with the Signature of birds

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Winter Songs 5

Winter’s words are cold but clear Their meaning rings true Winter writes on field and sky A page torn in two

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Winter Songs 4

Winter doesn’t waste its breath Or give much away Winter’s world is black and white Nothing more to say

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Winter Songs 3

Winter's world lies underground Winter’s thoughts run deep Thinking but keeping its thoughts to itself In its wintry sleep

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Winter Songs 2

Summer’s truth has been denied Autumn’s mystery laid bare Fire and air no longer feed The furnace of the dying year

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Winter Songs 1

Day dawns like an ebb tide On the horizon’s distant shore Summer’s gone and harvest’s home And all that’s left is winter’s store

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A poem

THE WRECK OF THE PIGEON days and nights of high wind driven at high tide across the garden strait into the brick walls of ancient privies the land-locked bird drops stunned breathless sinks lifeless lies washed up on dry land early in the morning through the bedroom...

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